To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. “Not a bit of it. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. I had to ask Mr.
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